Gospel Story Finder

Our son did this long ago on a family trip. We had traveled many miles to see a beautiful castle. By the time we finally arrived, one of our younger daughters was tired and cross. She refused to get out of the car to take the short hike to the site we had come so far to see. Most of us felt impatient with her. But with gentleness our 14-year-old son lifted her on his back and carried her to the castle. That tense moment was softened by his quiet expression of love. That now lives in each of our memories more than the view of the castle.

Harm or accidents. I laughed again, remembering what I used to call them.
I was probably about three years old when I first became aware of all the people in my ward who prayed for “no harm or accidents to befall us as we go home.” To my three-year-old ears, however, it always sounded like “Harmer accidents.” Since my last name was Harmer, this was great! Public prayers immediately took on a new aspect of interest and importance for me.
In our own family prayers, of course, Dad had always asked that we be protected from Harmer accidents, which we children categorized as car crashes, fires, spankings, or other bad things. Amazing to me was that everyone prayed about Harmer accidents! In Sunday School, Primary, and sacrament meetings, someone always prayed that no Harmer accidents would happen on the way home. I always felt so important after these prayers. Because no one wanted my family to get hurt (I was sure it was because everyone liked us so much), they had a special part of the blessing just for us.
Even people I didn’t know prayed for me! I remember attending a session of general conference once and hearing a General Authority promise protection from Harmer accidents as we traveled home. Well, I just about floated right out of the Tabernacle.
As I look back, I can see that I had a lot of faith in prayers when I was a child. When I heard so many people using my name in the prayer, I was sure Heavenly Father must hear, too. When I prayed, I really talked to my Father in Heaven and asked him for personal care. A prayer was more to me than a religious norm that opened and closed a meeting. Asking for protection from Harmer accidents was more than an expected and often overused closing to a prayer. It came to stand for my faith in prayer and my belief that every prayer was original and sincere.
I was about eight when I saw “harm or accident” written out and for the first time realized my mistake. I can remember having a feeling of great disappointment. People weren’t really praying for me after all. Heavenly Father wasn’t looking out for me in particular. Asking for protection from harm or accidents was just something that sounded appropriate at the end of a prayer. The feeling of disappointment soon faded, however, along with my keen interest in prayer. In fact, the only time I even wondered about prayer anymore was when my mind wandered during one, or when I laughed about Harmer accidents as I had done tonight.

Three days after Elder Harold B. Lee arrived in the mission field, he met a sister missionary, Sister Fern Tanner.
Mission companion: Elder Lee, this is Sister Tanner. Wish her happy birthday!
Harold: Pleased to meet you, Sister Tanner. And happy birthday to you!
Later, when he was released from his mission, he had an operation in Salt Lake City. Instead of making an uncomfortable trip back to Idaho, he stayed with Sister Tanner and her family to recover.
Fern: Can I bring you anything else, Harold? I hope you’re feeling all right.
Harold: Thank you, Fern. I’m feeling much better.
Sister Fern Tanner and Elder Harold B. Lee were married in the Salt Lake Temple on November 14, 1923. It was Fern’s birthday—exactly three years from the day they met.

As I slowly added to my mother’s family tree, I received a message from someone I didn’t know on FamilySearch. A maternal family name I had sent to the temple was reserved by this person, and they asked me for help to find more information about their family.
Temple names can only be reserved by descendants of that name, meaning I was related to this person messaging me. I was astounded! My family had always believed that we were the only members of the Church on my mother’s side and that no one from her side lived in the USA. But we were wrong.
This person turned out to be a distant cousin—their family immigrated to the United States almost 40 years before my mother did and are active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By what can only be described as a miracle, they contacted me right when they were visiting my state, and we had the opportunity to meet each other.
We shed tears when we finally saw each other. As we shared our stories, we realized that we had so much more in common than we’d thought. There is something about finding long-lost family members that makes my heart grow with love—a love that has the power to heal loneliness and discouragement and remind me of my divine identity and eternal connections.
The blessings available to us when we do family history work are “breathtakingly amazing because of their scope, specificity, and consequence in mortality,”3 as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared. The Lord blessed my family with relatives who could help us feel a bit closer to home and ease some of the loneliness we’ve been feeling.

One woman I know had a father who was often angry and easily upset. She said, “For many years, I saw Heavenly Father the same way I saw my own—someone who for the most part kept his distance and was easily disappointed.” This impacted her ability to truly understand Heavenly Father. However, she shared that Heavenly Father helped her learn that “He is slowly walking me out of fearing Him and into the saving power of His love.” She began to see the real Him.

As usual, my brother and I were sent to our room until Granddad had settled in. Stu was ten, and I was six. And it didn’t take my older brother long before he found something to keep himself busy—tormenting me. He decided he was going to scare me. First he tried making faces, but that didn’t work. So he shut me in the closet, and that scared me so much I pushed myself out and ran downstairs crying.

Granddad sat me on his knee and listened to what had happened.

“Hmmm?” he sighed. “Sounds like Stu could learn a thing or two,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Then I watched as he sneaked quietly up the stairs to our bedroom. Granddad waited outside the door until Stu turned out the lights and climbed into bed. With a mighty cry, Granddad jumped in and showed my brother just how it felt to be really scared.

After that, Stu slept with a night-light for a while.

That’s when I started to realize that my granddad was an original.

It was on a summer day early in the morning. I was standing near the window. The curtains obstructed me from two little creatures out on the lawn. One was a large bird and the other a little bird, obviously just out of the nest. I saw the larger bird hop out on the lawn, then thump his feet and cock his head. He drew a big fat worm out of the lawn and came hopping back. The little bird opened its bill wide, but the big bird swallowed the worm.

Then I saw the big bird fly up into a tree. He pecked at the bark for a little while and came back with a big bug in his mouth. The little bird opened his beak wide, but the big bird swallowed the bug. There was squawking in protest.

The big bird flew away, and I didn’t see it again, but I watched the little bird. After a while, the little bird hopped out on the lawn, thumped its feet, cocked its head, and pulled a big worm out of the lawn.

God bless the good people who teach our children and our youth, I humbly pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.Elder Howard W. HunterOf the Council of the Twelve

July 1
Dear Sarah,
After Lindsay came home, Mom had to spend a lot of time caring for her, and I helped a lot around the house, I didn’t have much time for the garden. I didn’t go all week, and when I finally got over there on Saturday, Mr. Trujillo was really sad. About half of our tomato plants were gone. Gophers got them. They just burrow underneath and pull the plants down—one day you see them, and the next day you don’t. He said he didn’t know how to get rid of the gophers. He was afraid to put out poison because pets might get into it. And he didn’t want to flush the gophers out and bash them over the head the way some people do. He’s really a nice man.
I told him I’d pray about it, and he kind of smiled and patted my head. On Sunday I fasted and prayed for Lindsay to get all well and for a solution to the gopher problem.
Monday morning I thought of Billy Swenson who lives down by the river. Remember him? He’s the kid who has live traps and catches squirrels and stuff up in the canyon. I went to see him, and we made a deal. He said that he’d come and trap the gophers and turn them loose down by the river if I would give him some tomatoes, three pumpkins, and two watermelons when they’re ready.
Mr. Trujillo was pretty surprised and happy. He looked at me in that puzzled way he does sometimes.
It took Billy four days to get all the gophers, but they’re gone. Yesterday we set out more tomato plants.
Love,Angela the Problem Solver

I remembered when we were younger and didn’t get along well. Sometimes he teased me so much I thought I’d be happy to someday see him go away. Because we were close in age, we were always together—at home and sometimes even at school. I remembered being on his “work team” while doing chores around the house, like folding clothes and washing dishes. When we were on clothes crew together, we would both fold as slowly as possible in order to fold the least amount of clothing and thus make the other do more work. Because we both worked so slowly, it would always take all day.
Dishes were even worse! Whenever I was the washer, he would sneak some of the dishes that I put in his drain rack and put them back on the counter to wash. I remember once washing one cup about six times before I figured it out.
I used to think Tommy caused all my problems, but now I realize he was just teasing, and it was probably my temper that caused many of our disagreements.
Sometimes I wondered why my parents never split us up or put us on different teams. But as we got older, I realized it was because those times together forced us to get to know each other and to learn to get along.

When Heber J. Grant was a young man, he took a grammar class.
Teacher: Your assignment is to listen to people speak. When they use incorrect grammar, write down what was said and correct it. Hand in four corrected sentences each week.
On Sunday, Heber attended church. The bishop stood to speak, and Heber took out a piece of paper to take notes. He quickly realized that he could do his homework.
Heber: His grammar is terrible! By the end of the meeting, I’ll have so many incorrect sentences I’ll never need another one.
Heber wrote down the first sentence, but that was all. The Spirit came upon him as the bishop bore testimony of Joseph Smith.
By the end of the meeting, Heber still had only one sentence written down. Tears of gratitude ran down his cheeks for the testimony that had been shared. He loved feeling the Spirit. It was the first time he had felt the Spirit this way.
Heber: I truly know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God.
The bishop’s talk made such an impression on Heber’s testimony that he didn’t use the one sentence he had written for homework. It was too sacred to mock.
Heber: I have never been annoyed by grammatical errors of those who preach the gospel. To judge a man’s spirit by the way he speaks is like judging a man by the clothes he wears. Some have never had the chance for education, and some have never had money for nice clothes. I have tried to judge men and women only by the spirit that they have.
As President of the Church, Heber used this experience to warn members to not harshly judge others.

When I spoke on this subject once before, I received a number of letters. I get letters all the time. I read from one that I had on that occasion:
“For more than 20 years I have endured a lack of sensitivity of members of the Church with respect to my single state. As I have pursued my profession, I have moved to various areas of the country. In seeking participation in local Church activities, I have encountered a variety of levels of welcome and acceptance, ranging from a warm, friendly welcome to a very cool indifference and an air of discomfort that seems to stem from their lack of knowing what to do with me. In one ward I felt strongly that the members would prefer that I not attend. This continued for nearly six months, and I finally sensed a passive acceptance, as though I were a nuisance that wouldn’t go away, and so must be tolerated.”
If that be the case, it is a tragedy. It represents a betrayal of the spirit that should be found in all of our congregations. Men and women such as you have great talents and can add immeasurably to the quality of the teaching and leadership in almost any ward in the Church. It is a general Church responsibility to remind bishops and other Church officers to give each member a warm welcome and to make use of his or her talents.
For when all is said and done, we should not be classified as married or single but as members of the Church, each worthy of the same attention, the same care, the same opportunities to be of service.

In another instance, some of the young men and women in one ward found themselves wavering in their testimonies and uncomfortable with Church activity. One day they decided, under the guidance of a very wise bishop, to involve themselves actively with several of the elderly members of the ward who were homebound. They divided into small groups, with each group determined to develop a family-like relationship with one of the homebound members. On a regular basis the young women and young men prepared meals that they and their elderly friends enjoyed together in the homes of the elderly members. Each Sunday the young men took the sacrament into the homes. On occasion, they arranged to hold special family home evenings together. These activities caused a remarkable change in the attitude of the young people toward themselves, toward the elderly, and toward the Church. They found a way to express the gospel of Christ through giving loving service.

Even though he seems to have conquered every obstacle in his life, at one time Spence felt his leg would stop him from serving a mission. “I was about 16. I was struggling. I didn’t know if I was going on a mission. I have a fake leg, and I was scared. I thought I’d just rather not go. And I was having trouble with sports. My prosthetic legs were breaking a lot, and things were not good.
“One night, after family home evening, I got a feeling that I needed to read something. I didn’t know what. We have a bunch of Church books up on our shelf. I’d never looked at them before. I pulled out a book by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone. I started reading it. I got to one story when Elder Featherstone was talking to a kid who didn’t have a leg. He wasn’t going on a mission, but then Elder Featherstone talked to him about it. I put myself into what was happening. The kid came back and told Elder Featherstone that he had a mission call and he was going to go. I just stopped. I realized, ‘That’s me. He’s talking straight to me.’ I set the book down. I had found my answer.”
But that moment was just the beginning of the changes in Spence’s life. For the first time in his life, he started praying on his own. He’d been taught to pray, but up until then, he had only prayed when called on in Sunday School or in his family. “Now I pray all the time in everything, in every sporting event, before every test. I pray for help,” says Spence. “My whole life turned around. Church hadn’t been my main priority, sports were. Now the gospel is the main thing. I have gained even more of a testimony of the Atonement. What Jesus Christ did for me is unbelievable.
“These past couple of years, I’ve been a lot happier. Even people at school can see that I’m a lot happier, a lot friendlier. I talk to everybody. If they say hi to me, I’ll talk to them. I hardly ever get mad anymore. That’s what I try to explain to my friends who aren’t members of the Church. It’s not that we’re out to convert you just to have another member of the Church. We want to make you happier.”
In the end, Spence learned what everyone has to learn for themselves—it doesn’t matter what you have to deal with in this life; if you turn to the Lord, He will listen and guide you in your decisions. And that’s why Spence packed his extra leg and made the commitment to serve the Lord for two years on a mission.

As a matter of fact, attempts to keep illness or other problems secret can sometimes backfire. One elder heard by accident that his mother had undergone heart surgery. A frantic, long-distance phone call from England partially reassured him that she was progressing satisfactorily. But the remaining year of his mission was edged with anxiety. As he put it, “If they had leveled with me, I could have relaxed when the crisis was past, but this way, I was never sure how things really were at home.”

James (10) and Jessa (9) Bacani Campbell are two siblings (brother and sister) who spend a lot of time together. They have other “twos” in common. They have lived in two countries, have spoken two languages, and have been a part of two families.
They lived in the Philippines until three years ago, when their mother, Rosalia Bacani, died. Their uncle and aunt, Lynn and Remy Campbell, from Boise, Idaho, then adopted them. They are now a part of a big family with two more brothers and two more sisters: Joseph (21), Chandra (20), Jacob (19), and Cheryl (16).
They not only gained a loving, new family but also learned about the gospel of Jesus Christ. They didn’t know anything about Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ when they came to their new home. “They were not members of the Church, and they had to start from scratch learning about it,” Sister Campbell said.
James and Jessa received all the missionary discussions and went to Church with their new family. On Christmas Eve, 1997, they were baptized by their brother Joseph, who had just returned from the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission. They know that it was special to be baptized on the same day. “But,” as Jessa pointed out, “we weren’t baptized together.”
“I was baptized first,” James said, “because I’m older.” He remembers the water being really warm on that wintry evening, but he also remembers feeling warm “inside me.” It was a contrast to the cold snow outside, which was still new to them—they had never seen snow in the Philippines.
Their new dad confirmed them, and Jessa said that she felt happy. James felt the Spirit while partaking of the sacrament the next Sunday. He told the family afterward, “You know, there’s something different in me. There’s a warm feeling.”
Neither James nor Jessa knew how to speak or read English when they moved to the United States, so they didn’t say much. But their family claims that they talk nonstop now. Because they are still learning English, they are in an ESL (English as a Second Language) class at school. Jessa uses this class as an opportunity to serve others. “I help friends in the class who don’t know English as well.” She has many friends because of her openness and caring. One friend even wrote her a note that said, “You are my very best, best, best, best friend. Today I will buy you a candy and an ice cream.”
James serves his friends when he plays sports. “Sometimes I bring frozen treats out for them when we play,” he said. Basketball and soccer top his list of favorite sports, and he and his friends often play tag in their school yard.
Jessa is a talented dancer. She won many awards in the Philippines by performing traditional Filipino dances. She plans to continue dancing, because when she grows up, she wants to be a dancer, doctor, policewoman, and singer. For now, she prepares for a singing career by learning the piano’s notes. She can already play some songs on the piano.
Both James and Jessa enjoy riding their bikes and roller-skating. Jessa especially likes playing games such as ticktacktoe with James. “In the Philippines we didn’t have ticktacktoe,” Jessa explained. “We used to play with jacks and rubber bands for games.”
Their family often goes camping and fishing. “We went camping a couple of weeks after they moved here,” Brother Campbell said.
“They didn’t know anything about mountains, camping, or sleeping in a tent,” Sister Campbell added. “But they adjusted really well. Both of them even caught a fish on their first try!”
“You didn’t catch it,” Jessa told James. “Daddy helped you.”
“Daddy helped you, too,” James said with a laugh.
James and Jessa have a great respect for their family. James admires his brother Jacob and wants to be like him. He also wants to be like Nephi because Nephi obeyed his father and his Heavenly Father. “I obey my father, too,” he said. Jessa also respects her dad, and she knows all the words to her favorite Primary song, “Fathers.”*
Both children enjoy Primary and Church activities. James is a Bear in Cub Scouts and went to day camp, where he learned skills such as tying knots. Each year he has been a Scout, he has entered a race car in the Pinewood Derby. “I always lose,” he said with a grin. Jessa enjoys Achievement Days. She learned about health at one activity and has since kept track of what she eats and how many hours of sleep and exercise she gets.
James has had to cut back on his physical activities. He had foot surgery to straighten a crooked bone in his foot, and he temporarily wears a cast over his foot and lower leg. But this experience has taught him that spiritual strength is as important as physical strength. He admires Moroni because he is an example of strength in both ways. “I want to be strong like him when I grow up so that when people are having trouble, I can help them.”
He learns these traits from the missionaries, too. His family regularly has the missionaries over to dinner, and James likes to learn from them. But he also likes them to come over for another reason. “I like the food,” he said. “We make good food when they come.”
Jessa likes learning about the Creation through her Primary lessons, games, and songs. “I like learning about the Creation of the world because it helps you learn about Jesus,” she said.
James’s favorite Primary song is “Book of Mormon Stories,”** because it’s about learning the scripture stories. James and Jessa now have the scriptures and wonderful teachers, friends, and family who help them learn about Jesus Christ and His church. For both children, this was a real comfort when they moved to a new country and had to learn a new language. James even remembers hiding in the bushes because he was so scared and lonely when he first moved. Now both he and Jessa are confident and happy, and they know that they are loved by many.

The idea for what turned out to be a two-year mission began on a spring day in 1997 when Ryan and his dad, Todd, were returning home after mowing church lawns around Parowan, Utah, his hometown. When their truck broke down, Ryan suggested they ride a lawn mower back to town. During the ride Ryan said, “Dad, why don’t we ride this lawn mower all the way to Salt Lake and mow the state capitol lawn?”
His dad replied, “Why don’t you ride it all the way to Washington, D.C., and mow the White House lawn!” Ryan began dreaming about his name appearing in the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest lawn mower ride in history.
But something was missing. Ryan and his family felt they needed a greater purpose for such an undertaking.
Shortly after, while Ryan’s father was getting his truck repaired, his mechanic, a neighbor, confided that their three-month-old daughter, Whitnie, had a rare disease requiring a liver transplant. The cost would be enormous, and the Penders had limited insurance and funds.
Ryan’s heart went out to the Penders. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Perhaps his goal to mow the White House lawn could work together with a fundraising project for Whitnie! Why not hand out cards to the people he met along the way asking for donations to be sent to a special fund? People could pledge money for each mile he drove.
The Tripp family members all wanted to help, and wheels were set in motion. They charted a course from Parowan to Washington, D.C.; they obtained local police permission for Ryan to drive the lawn mower along state and city roadways, and a large lawn mower manufacturer generously donated a machine. Ryan’s mom, Diane, his two sisters, Tiffany and Chantel, and his brother, Robbie, agreed to temporarily take over the lawn-mowing business.
On August 15, 1997, Ryan began his 3,116-mile cross-country lawn mower drive, with Grandpa and Grandma Meidlinger leading the procession by car and his dad following Ryan in their truck.
Sound like fun? Picture yourself driving a lawn mower at 10 mph, 10 to 12 hours a day, for 42 days through blistering heat, rain, and wind. For the first few weeks, Ryan had lots of fun. He signaled his dad on their walkie-talkies, waved to passing cars, listened to music on his CD player, looked at the scenery, and made all kinds of noises as he drove along.
Then he ran into a problem. One day he was particularly tired from their early morning starts and dozed off listening to his music. He awoke to the blasting horn of his father’s truck behind him, just as his lawn mower was careening off the side of the road. His CD days were over.
After that, the hours became long, and it seemed the cornfield-lined roads would never end. “Sometimes I got a little antsy and wanted to get off my lawn mower and go do things a normal boy would, especially when it rained. It got kind of hard to just sit there and drive along the road,” he recalls. The trek became a challenge to Ryan.
However, each challenge brings its own reward, and Ryan’s was time for serious thinking. He thought about his plans for the future; he thought about the importance of never giving up, of keeping promises and commitments; and he thought about how nice it was to have his dad so close. Reaching his father on his walkie-talkie at any time reminded him of talking to another Father: “It was kind of a lesson to me about how close my Heavenly Father is and how I can reach Him through prayer whenever I need something,” Ryan says.
Thinking about his own supportive family, Ryan’s thoughts often turned to little Whitnie. He understood her family’s love for her and knew he must do whatever was needed to help.
Ryan began to see a much greater purpose in this trip. Breaking records took a distant second to helping Whitnie. And as he thought about her, and others he learned about along the way, Ryan’s prayers took on new meaning. “My dad and I would pray every morning before we started and again when we got back to the hotel,” he says. They prayed for safety, for Whitnie, and for all the people needing transplants.
Finally, Ryan’s quest ended at the U.S. Capitol. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, other government officials, press members, and TV viewers watched as he mowed the Capitol Hill lawn. The trip was successful—Ryan broke the record and, more importantly, raised $15,000 for little Whitnie, who received her transplant that same year.

Guy de Maupassant, the French writer, tells the story of a peasant named Hauchecome who came on market day to the village. While walking through the public square, his eye caught sight of a piece of string lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His actions were observed by the village harness maker with whom he had previously had a dispute.
Later in the day the loss of a purse was reported. Hauchecome was arrested on the accusation of the harness maker. He was taken before the mayor, to whom he protested his innocence, showing the piece of string that he had picked up. But he was not believed and was laughed at.
The next day the purse was found, and Hauchecome was absolved of any wrongdoing. But, resentful of the indignity he had suffered because of a false accusation, he became embittered and would not let the matter die. Unwilling to forgive and forget, he thought and talked of little else. He neglected his farm. Everywhere he went, everyone he met had to be told of the injustice. By day and by night he brooded over it. Obsessed with his grievance, he became desperately ill and died. In the delirium of his death struggles, he repeatedly murmured, “A piece of string, a piece of string.” (The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Black’s Reader Service: Roslyn, New York, pp. 34–38.)

Jennifer and Melissa Peterson and Shawn Edwards, of the Council Bluffs Iowa Ward, Papillon Nebraska Stake were in the mood to win a contest, so they produced a video called “Glenn Miller: A Master Showperson and Arranger.” It won first place in their division of the International Student Media Festival.
Jennifer, Melissa, and Shawn wrote the narration for the video, mixed the music and narration, recorded still photos and film on video, and combined the video and sound. Glenn Miller might seem like an unusual subject for teenagers to pick, but they explained it this way: “We picked Glenn Miller because he was from Iowa and we like his music.” Their film won them the right to attend the International Student Media Festival Awards Conference in Orlando, Florida.

I hung up the phone, dumbfounded. “I have to call everyone,” I thought. “Pete, Whitney, Kristen …” I fumbled for my planner, too flustered to remember the phone numbers I’d had memorized since middle school.
A few weeks before, our group of friends had mailed Daniel a Christmas package. We had marveled that in a mere six months he would be home from his mission. We could hardly wait!
Then Daniel’s dad had called. Now I wished we still had to wait—bad news suddenly turned six months into three days. Daniel had become so sick he was bedridden, and the doctors didn’t know why.
Besides being worried about his illness, I was heartsick to think of how disappointed he must be. Serving a mission had been his most treasured goal, and the people in Michigan were some of his most beloved friends.
The night before Daniel’s return home, I lay in bed staring out the window. The moon illuminated brown mountains and bare tree branches—nothing like the snow-covered evergreens I pictured in Michigan. I frowned. “It will be even more depressing if he has to come back to this,“ I thought. Climbing out of bed and onto my knees, I prayed that Daniel might be welcomed home by a glistening, white blanket of snow. Before I drifted off to sleep, a few snowflakes flurried outside my window.
The next morning, as we walked to Daniel’s house to await his arrival, beautiful snow crunched under our shoes. I offered a hurried, silent prayer of thanks.
Soon a car pulled into the driveway. Daniel looked frail, but he managed a weak smile and handshake for each of us. As he inched up the walkway, he paused to survey the yard. His smile deepened. “I like the snow,” he murmured. I turned away to hide my tears.
That afternoon, as I drove back to college, I realized more fully what the Lord had done. Only one storm cloud hovered in the sky, directly over our hometown. Less than three miles away from the snow, the sun beamed down on a dry, brown valley.
I had always believed in answers to prayers, even in miracles. But it was the first time I had understood that sometimes God performs small miracles just to show His love. Overwhelmed by the Spirit, I thanked the Lord again for His gift of comfort—a snowstorm for Daniel.

Brad wasn’t the only sixth grader who made life miserable for us younger students at school, but he was probably the biggest bully in the school. Once, he and some of his buddies grabbed my best friend, Trek, and stuffed him headfirst into a garbage can. I helped pull him out, of course. And Jesse had his lunch money stolen by Brad.
I tried to stay away from Brad and his gang, but one day during morning recess, I slipped up by going to the rest room. I tried to be smart about it, though. Before I took one step inside the rest room, I checked to see if it was empty. It was, so I figured I was in the clear. Then, as I was drying my hands and getting ready to sprint for the door, I heard a bunch of guys coming. I could tell by the way they were laughing and talking and bragging that they were sixth graders. Before I could move, the rest room door banged open and in walked Brad and three of his friends.
I knew the last thing I should do was act scared and worried, so I finished drying my hands and tossed the wadded-up paper towel into the trash barrel, ducked my head, and charged for the door, pretending that the sixth graders weren’t even there.
“Where’re you headed, kid?” Brad growled, stepping in front of me. His buddies started to laugh and lined up in front of the door so that there was no way I could get out. “What’s the idea, using the sixth grade rest room?”
“Huh?” I grunted, looking up and feeling my stomach twitch. “I didn’t know this was just for sixth—”
“Well, it is,” Brad growled, cutting me off. “This here’s just for sixth graders. Are you in sixth grade, kid?”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt as though it was filled with powder. “I’m in Miss Winder’s fifth grade class,” I managed to squeak just above a whisper. “But this is the only rest room anybody can use during recess,” I pointed out pleadingly.
“Well, if you use it,” Brad complained, “then don’t leave it in such a mess. You fifth graders are always trashing our rest room.”
“I didn’t mess anything up,” I croaked.
Ignoring me, Brad turned to his buddies, who were grinning and giggling. “Didn’t he leave this place trashed?”
“He sure did,” William said. He was a big, redheaded guy who always hung around with Brad. “Just look at all the trash on the floor.” He went to the trash barrel, reached in, pulled out a handful of soggy paper towels and threw them on the floor. The other two guys grabbed the trash barrel, tipped it upside down, and dumped everything onto the floor. Then all four of them kicked and scattered the trash about the rest room.
“Look at the huge mess this kid made,” Brad shouted. “In our rest room!” He turned to me. “Clean this place up, kid, before we tell the principal that you’re trashing the rest room. Now, get to work.”
For a moment I stood there with my mouth hanging open, not sure what I should do. I took a quick glance toward the door, wondering if I could make it out of there before Brad and his buddies caught me.
“Don’t even think about running, kid,” Brad threatened. “Even if you did get away, we’d catch you later.”
There wasn’t anything for me to do but clean the place up. The bell rang just as I threw the last handful of trash back into the barrel. Brad grabbed me by the front of my shirt, jerked me toward him, and muttered, “Don’t tell anybody about this, or you’ll be one real sorry kid—understand?” I quickly nodded. “Next time we won’t be so easy on you.” He gave me a quick, hard shove as he left with his buddies.
That afternoon as I made a sandwich in the kitchen with my younger brother, Lance, I muttered angrily, “I hate Brad! I wish I were about a foot taller and thirty pounds bigger—I’d bust him in the nose. He’d never bother me again, that’s for sure.” I shook my head and growled again, “Boy, I hate him!”
“Jay!” Mom came into the kitchen, frowning, “Is that any way to talk about someone?”
I whipped around, surprised. I hadn’t counted on Mom hearing what I was saying. She had a puzzled look on her face. “What could possibly make you say something like that about another person? You know that in our family we don’t say that we hate people.”
I ducked my head and stared at the butter knife I was holding. Then, remembering what had happened that morning in the rest room, I became angry all over again. “Well, as far as I’m concerned,” I snapped, “Brad isn’t anything but a big bully and a jerk, and I figure it’s OK to hate jerks and bullies.”
“Jay! I don’t know what this Brad did, but it still doesn’t give you any right to talk about him the way you are.”
It was hard to do, but I described for Mom and Lance everything that had happened to me that morning in the rest room.
Mom was quiet for a moment. Then she said firmly, “I think that I should give the principal a call.”
“No!” I shouted, feeling my stomach twist in knots. “Not the principal! Then everybody will think that I’m a big snitch. That would be worse than anything Brad could do to me. And Brad will do plenty more to me if he finds out you talked to Mr. Tanner.”
“Well, we need to do something. Meanwhile, I don’t want you saying that you hate Brad.”
“All right,” I muttered. “I won’t say it.” To myself, I added quietly, “I’ll just think it—because it’s the truth.”
Mom sat down at the table and clasped her hands. “What would the Savior want you to do, Jay?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, Mom,” I groaned. “What would Jesus want Brad to do? Does He want him to be a big bully?”
“Right now I’m worried more about you being full of hate and anger than I am about Brad being a bully.”
“Mom, I haven’t done anything to Brad,” I growled. “Why are you trying to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong?”
“Jay, if you have bad thoughts about this boy, some of that badness rubs off on you. The more you let yourself have hate and anger, the more you become angry and hateful.”
“So what do you expect me to do—forget that he’s a jerk?”
“Can you remember that Brad is a child of God too?”
“He’s not a very good one,” I snorted.
“When men were unkind to the Savior,” Mom asked, “what did He do? Did He hate them, call them names, and say that He wished He could bust them in the nose?”
I ducked my head, knowing that Mom was right, but I wasn’t in the mood to admit it, even to myself. I just wanted to get back at Brad some way.
“I think Jesus would try to forgive Brad.”
“Forgive him!” I almost choked. “If Brad wants me to forgive him, maybe he should at least come around and say he’s sorry. And I know that that’s never going to happen. He doesn’t feel sorry for anything he’s done to me or anyone else.”
“The soldiers who nailed Jesus to the cross didn’t say they were sorry for what they were doing. But Jesus still forgave them.”
I had no arguments left, but I was still angry.
I didn’t tell Mom that I was going to forgive Brad, because I didn’t plan to. I didn’t say that I hated him anymore, but I thought it plenty. Every time I saw him at school, I’d get angry all over again. In fact, I’d get so angry that my stomach would churn.
A few days later during lunch hour, I saw some kids writing with a bright red marker on one of the walls in the hall. They ran when they saw me. That afternoon Mr. Tanner called me down to his office.
When I got there, Brad was sitting outside it, scowling. He glared at me as I walked past him into the principal’s office. Mr. Tanner closed his door and sat behind his desk.
“Jay,” he began, leaning forward in his chair, “there was some vandalism done in the hall today at noon, and one of the teachers thought you might know something about it.”
I swallowed and nodded. “But I didn’t do it,” I added quickly.
Mr. Tanner smiled. “I believe you, Jay. I didn’t call you down here because I thought you were guilty. But I was wondering if you could help us find out who is.”
I twisted uneasily in my chair. “They were down the hall from me,” I explained slowly, “and they had their backs to me most of the time. I’m pretty sure they were sixth graders, but I don’t know all the sixth graders. I really don’t know who they were, Mr. Tanner.”
“Do you know some of the sixth graders, Jay? Do you know Bradford—I believe everybody calls him Brad.”
So that was why Brad was waiting in the office. Mr. Tanner figured he was one of the vandals. “Yeah, I know him.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
I shook my head. “Definitely not!” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.
“Have you had trouble with Brad before?”
I nodded.
Mr. Tanner took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “This is the kind of thing Brad has done before, Jay. I think he was in on this vandalism. I need you to tell me whether he was one of the boys in the hall today.”
Suddenly I thought of what had happened in the rest room a few days before. This was my chance to get even with Brad. Then I thought of what Mom had asked me: “What would Jesus want you to do?”
I shifted in my chair and looked across the desk at Mr. Tanner. “Brad wasn’t one of them,” I said quietly.
Mr. Tanner studied me a moment before speaking. “Are you sure, Jay? You don’t have to be afraid of him. I can make sure that he doesn’t bother you.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Tanner. I’d recognize Brad anyplace, even from behind. He wasn’t one of the guys there this afternoon.”
Mr. Tanner seemed a little disappointed. He had hoped that I could pin the vandalism on Brad. But I knew that I had done the right thing. As I walked past Brad to go back to class, he glared at me again. But somehow I didn’t feel angry anymore. It was as if a cold, hard lump had been pried from my insides and thrown away.
As I was getting ready to board my bus that afternoon, someone came up behind me and grabbed my arm. It was Brad. He didn’t have his buddies with him. “Mr. Tanner told me what you said,” he muttered.
“I just told the truth.”
He nodded. “Well, thanks.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “You don’t have to worry about anything happening in the rest room anymore.”
As I climbed onto the bus, I smiled. Brad was still the biggest bully at school, but I didn’t hate him anymore, and deep inside I felt better than I’d felt in a long time. I guess that’s what happens when you learn to forgive.